“Does this look like an act of love to you?”
We stare at one another for a few seconds, thunder rolling like a brutal reminder in the distance.
And then it hits me—we’re both falling into the same lie. Both of us are holding onto the ghost of a man we once adored and trusted, pretending he still exists somewhere beneath all that violence.
“He’s a liar,” I choke out. “He’s a fucking psychopath… A narc…”
The words die on my tongue as fresh tears burn behind my eyes. I squeeze them shut, but the grief still claws its way up my throat like acid, scorching everything it touches.
“He played us. He playedme. This is exactly what he's always been. He has just been good at hiding it behind his handsome face and soft words.”
Brad’s hands settle on my shoulders, warm and steady.
“I’ll get to the bottom of this, Blaire,” he says gently. “But you need to leave. I can help you—if you’ll let me.”
Leave?
A broken, bitter sound escapes my lips because it's so fucking easy to say that, especially coming from someone who has never been on the receiving end of the man you love’s fist.
I remember I tried to convince myself to leave once. With split lips, and trembling hands, I packed in the dark. But the bag stayed in the closet, and I stayed in his captivity.
Now the hammer is back in my hand, driving the final nails into a coffin I built for myself.
Plank by plank, excuse after excuse.
Nail by nail, forgiving each purple bruise.
I am both a survivor and my very own undertaker, and the lid is slowly closing over me.
I used to hear about women like me, abused and trapped in marriages like this. I’ve heard it more than once whilst being with Law. And stupidly, I pitied them from a distance, told myself I’d never let that happen to me.
But pity doesn’t prepare you for reality.
I used to ask myself, why don’t they just leave?
The answer feels like it’s carved into my very bones now. Because leaving isn’t simple—it’s terrifying and dangerous. And when you’ve loved someone that deeply, part of you will bleed yourself dry trying to resurrect the version of them you lost.
So here I am, the fucking fool, clinging to the last brittle threads of love, convincing myself I can fix him, change him, and save him—just as he did me.
Because that’s the sickness of it, isn’t it? These toxic, poisoned bonds.
You stay not because of the bruises and tears, but to stupidly dispute them. You stay because of some strangehope.
And before you even realize it, you’re dead inside, your mind numb and spirit broken, long before the final blow ever lands.
I should have left that night. I should have ran and never looked back.
A throat suddenly clears behind Brad—Law’s throat.
The sound stabs through the rain, and my entire body stiffens into an aching lock.
I want to sprint to the car, act like we never spoke, pretend he didn’t hear a single word. But a small, dreaded part of me already knows he has probably been standing there the whole time, listening and gauging every syllable.
Brad lets out a heavy sigh that shudders through his chest, eyes closing for a beat before he turns to face Law.
My heart pounds against my ribs, each breath feeling shallower than the last.
“Hey, I was just talking about the four of us hanging out again. Just like old times,” Brad insists coolly, the words edged with something that wants to pass for truth, but it sounds fake, a thin varnish over a fucking lie.